


Let Me

by mischief5



Category: Dawson's Creek, Thoughtcrimes (2003)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-04
Updated: 2010-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischief5/pseuds/mischief5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't about sex. It may not even be about love. It should be about comfort.</p><p>It's really about trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neevebrody (neeve_fic)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=neevebrody+%28neeve_fic%29).



When Brendan comes in from work, Vince sits back from his law books and watches. It's like this every day. Brendan has his rituals, mandated by the NSA: all weapons are carried "door to door" – home to work, office to field and back again, work to home – and secured upon arrival. Brendan's long fingers are quick and sure as he checks his Sig Sauer, removes the clip, clears the chamber, and locks the weapon in desk drawer for safety.

Vince thinks it's hotter than hell but only once did he try to jump Brendan while he was still armed. He found himself in a very painful thumb tap and then pushed away until the Sig was secured. Afterward, Brendan glared at him through lowered lashes, snapped out, "Door to door," and ignored Vince for the rest of the evening.

Vince never tried that again.

The ritual isn't complete until Brendan has stalked, stiff-shouldered and intent, into the bedroom, changed out of his suit – hanging it carefully away or setting it aside for the dry cleaners – tossed the rest of his clothes in the laundry, and taken a long, almost blistering shower. 

That's Vince's cue. He can join Brendan in the shower – or not – and they can steam up the bathroom together. Sometimes, it's enough to take the rebar out of Bren's spine, leaving him a damp, relaxed puddle in the middle of the bed while Vince calls out for Thai or pizza. Those nights are the best.

Other nights, when a case makes Brendan's temper short, or when a case goes bad, not even a blowjob is enough to lower Brendan's chin, to still his hands, to take the tension out of his back and hips. That's when Vince keeps his distance, keeps his chatter idle and sparse, and watches as Brendan moves through the kitchen, quick and precise, making a meal he won't eat. Those nights are the worst.

Tonight, Vince has had enough. He waits until he hears the shower running and then puts his law books away. It's not like statutes and warrants are all that exciting in any case. In the bedroom, he lays out clothes for Brendan: a plain, blue t-shirt soft with age and many washings, and a pair of knit pants meant for yoga but worn on lazy Sundays while reading the _New York Times._  

Vince leans against the bedroom door as Brendan marches out of the bathroom, roughly toweling his hair and body dry. Yeah, the case went bad. Brendan stills when he sees the shirt and pants on the bed and Vince waits. He wants this to work, needs this to work, for Brendan's sake. He knows Bren will never ask, never reach out, no matter how long they're together. He doesn't know  _why_  Bren won't ask, and maybe that doesn't matter, but it feels like a lack of trust to Vince, like there's still things that Brendan deliberately keeps hidden away from him. Details about cases, Vince can live without, as well as the minutiae of daily life. He doesn't need to know every fact about every lover Brendan has ever had, and he doesn't envy Brendan's eidetic memory. Some things are better forgotten. But he does want to know why Brendan holds himself apart when it's so obvious he needs to be  _held_.

Then Brendan breaks and slings the towel at the laundry basket. Vince doesn't flinch as Bren steps into the pants and pulls them sharply over his hips. He waits as Brendan yanks the t-shirt down and tries to shoulder past him through the door. 

"No," Vince says. "No more."

"Fuck off."

Vince wraps his arms around Brendan, his left hooked around his neck, his right settling firm on the small of his back. "No."

Brendan struggles without intent, not wildly but without using any of the nasty tricks he learned at FLETC. Vince just tightens his grip and buries his face in the sweet, damp hair of Brendan's neck.

"Shhh. Let me. Let me hold you."

"Fuck you... Fuck!" His voice breaks. His hands hang in useless fists at his sides as he stops fighting to get free. Vince knows it's not over yet, knows if he gives even a little, Brendan will be gone, out into the kitchen, into the living room, out on the deck, and even further into himself than ever before. Vince holds on, firm, strong, tight, tighter. As much as he wants to, he doesn't caress that long, taut back, doesn't palm that solid, little ass. This isn't about sex. It may not even be about love. It should be about comfort.

It's really about trust.

Something brought Brendan to this place in his life where he can't ask to be held, to be cuddled, to be cosseted just a little. Vince knows Brendan thinks it's a secret but it's not. He telegraphs it every night from the front door to the shower to the kitchen.

"Let me. Why won't you just let me hold you?"

"It doesn't matter," Brendan rasps out, stiff and unyielding.

Vince can hear the aching loneliness behind those words and lets his body melt into Brendan's. "It does."

"I don't – I've tried – No one's ever –" Brendan chokes.

And there it is: Brendan  _had_  asked to be held, to be cuddled, to be comforted, and was pushed away. Vince wants to curse, to find the sorry asshole who couldn't be bothered with simple kindness and beat the shit out of them. He wants to pour out his rage at a world that wouldn't give something so little to a man who gave so much.

He shudders and grips Brendan's flesh so hard, he's sure it'll leave bruises. Brendan gasps and sags in his arms.

 _"Vince..."_  His hands come up, open and unsure against Vince's back.

"Let me," Vince whispers.

Then Brendan sighs. Those quick, sure fingers thread into Vince's hair tight and tighter, and one hand fists his shirt like it's there forever. When he nuzzles in behind Vince's ear, Vince knows it's over, and it's just beginning.

It's not the first secret they've shared and it won't be the last. But it might be the most important of them all.


End file.
